


A Study In Pink

by LePetitePrince



Series: The Consulting Detective [1]
Category: Panic At The Disco, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LePetitePrince/pseuds/LePetitePrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recent serial suicides begin to look a lot like serial murders when Spencer Smith - A retired Afghanistan soldier and doctor - meets Brendon Urie - The only consulting detective in the world. The two personalities clash and compliment as they both move in together and begin to assist each other in their work, all whilst resisting each others charms. Who could ever love a traumatized soldier, and who could ever love a sociopath?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Pink

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when I wrote this. I thought it'd be interesting, I guess, to see what it would be like to have Brendon and Spencer as a duo with a lot of UST, and... Well, this is the result. I'm going to see this case through to the end, and we'll see how this carries on. Credit for the character basis and plotlines go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - If you've never read any of his books, you must! And also, thanks go to BBC's take on Sherlock, I love the 21st Century spin.

"Smith?" A deep voice boomed from behind.

Spencer turned around to see a plump man with ruddy cheeks and a pinstripe suit grin wildly at him whilst waddling at a great speed towards him. "My God, it's been... What? Two years?"

Spencer forced a laugh and shook the hand that the man had pushed under his nose. "Yes, it's been a while."

The plump man looked downwards. "Your leg, what happened? Here, sit! Sit! It must be hurting you, and I'd love to catch up!" He gestured towards a broken down park bench.

Spencer cringed, but sat down regardless. It's true, his leg was throbbing, muscles contracting wildly around his damaged bone. He looked around and saw the beauty of Central Park in daylight. Not a gun or a tank in sight. No sand. No destroyed buildings. Total peace.

"So... What happened?" The fat man - Cartwright, he recalled - repeated, pointing to Spencer's leg.

"Oh." Spencer said through a monotone. "My tour of duty, Mr. Cartwright. As soon as I got there, it's never been the same." He looked at his leg with a grimace.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Cartwright said solemnly, before perking up and clapping him on the shoulder. "Could've been worse, eh?"

Yes, Spencer thought, It could've been. I've treated and failed enough to know that.  
  
"What are you up to now, Mr Smith?"

"Trying to find a place to stay. At least until I can get on my feet. Well..." Spencer tapped his calf with his metallic walking stick. "If I can get on my feet, anyway."

Cartwright let out a loud laugh, but suddenly stopped all together. "Hey, I know who might be able to help you out."

Spencer's expression softened. "Really? D-Do you have a number?"

He snorted. "Well, I can take you to see him now! He's been looking for someone for a good while now."

Cartwright stood up without another word and began waddling down the path. It took a moment for Spencer to collect himself, adjust his stick and catch up, but both men had began walking towards the man he'd soon be living with.

\---------------------------

  


"Where's the petri dish I just put down?"

"H-Here, Mr. Urie." The timid biologist replied, handing over the circular plastic dish.

Brendon continued looking through the microscope. "Put it down," he pointed to an empty space on the workbench. "There."

The biologist - Greta, he recalled - whimpered and slid the petri dish down and scurried away, through the door of the lab. Brendon sighed and took a step away from the microscope. "They're not reacting. Why?" He began to pace and mutter to himself.

His thoughts were disrupted by a booming laughter, the smell of Old Spice and tobacco smoke. Brendon observed the cells through the microscope once again and listened to Cartwright entering through the door. "Cartwright." Brendon muttered without averting his gaze. "I see you haven't stopped wearing that damn after shave. It's distracting."

"Urie, I've brought someone to see you!" He replied, pushing forward a young man. "This is Spencer Smith."

Brendon looked up, glanced over him and nodded. "Hello." Before moving back down towards his work. "Oh," he said again. "Can I borrow a phone?"

Cartwright shuffled around in his pockets, but came up empty handed. Brendon shifted his gaze towards Spencer and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I have one," he said as he rooted around in his pockets. "Here."

He handed over his cell phone, which Brendon took. "Thanks." Brendon muttered when his fingers brushed the other man's. He noticed a vague shade of pink glazing over Smith's cheeks.

Brendon tapped away on Spencer's cell phone. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He noticed Spencer's face drop when the words left his lips. He didn't stop tapping away. "What?" Spencer replied with a disbelieving chuckle.

"I hope you don't mind, but I play a lot of cello. And violin. And guitar. And drums."

Smith shook his head. "That's fine, how did you know? Did he tell you?" He pointed to Cartwright.

"And I'm messy. You know, plates, clothes, books, case studies. The average."

"That'll be okay," he shrugged, "I've been called anal, at times."

Brendon stopped typing at looked up with hooded eyes. "Did you just say you're into anal?"

Spencer's cheeks flared up instantly in a rouge-color. "No! God, no! I-I'm not--"

"Because it's fine if you are." He replied, handing Spencer's own phone back to him, which he took the phone and shoved it in his pants pocket. "And you didn't answer me - Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. How did you know?"

"A lot of things gave it away. Your stance; your shoulders are square and your feet are at equal angles. You have a cane; possibly due to wartime injuries, but it's most likely psychosomatic as you didn't ask to sit down when you came in. The cane you're holding is typically given to those with a military history, and it's fairly new. Your phone is second hand and given to you when you came home from war, and from the engraving it's from someone called Chris. Most likely a brother, because you've been away for such a long time, it's unlikely it's from a friend and if it was from a cousin that you were close with, you'd be staying with them and not looking for a place to stay with me."

Brendon began to pace, his mind racing. "Which leads me to the question, "why aren't you staying with your brother?" It's probably due to the fact that he drinks and you don't like it, the scratches around the charging slot are pretty damn obvious. He drinks because he's getting divorced and he's getting divorced because he drinks. The poor condition of his phone is an obvious sign of how well he treats the things given to him."

He turned to Spencer. "Am I close?"

Spencer's mouth hung open, his metallic cane was on the floor and he was looking at him ludicrously. 100% correct, Brendon thought.

Smith had shuffled and picked his cane up with some difficulty. "Close, but... Not quite."

Urie's face dropped. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Chris... Isn't my brother." Spencer began. "Chris is short for Crystal."

He shut his eyes and his head swang backwards. "I knew it!" Urie cried, punching the air. "I knew there was something wrong."

Smith shook his head. "How? How did you know that? You couldn't of just guessed all that."

"I don't guess, Mr Smith." Brendon replied, feeling insulted. "I deduce." He strutted past Smith and pushed through the door.

"Who are you?" Spencer shouted after him.

Brendon smirked and peered around the corner. "Urie. Brendon Urie. And the address is 221 Baker Street. Be there in an hour," he replied with a wink before waltzing out of the lab once again.

How did I get it wrong? He thought to himself as his heels clicked down the laminated hallway, his head reeling.


End file.
